When Jack has to answer the same dumb question for the twentieth time, he remembers why it is that he hates shows and does everything in his power to avoid them. Damn Ennis. He always gets me so damn riled up. The man who's been occupying the past twenty minutes of Jack's time finally nods, satisfied at the answer, and declines to make the purchase. Jack smiles politely, imagining his hands squeezing around the man's chubby neck, tells him to have a good day. He stretches his neck from side to side, satisfied by the matching crackle-pop sounds that come out, and checking his watch, he sees that it's just about time to call it a day. He heads to the men's room for one last piss before he leaves this overheated, overcrowded bunch of L.D. clones, assaulted by the sharp stench of ammonia when he pushes through the faded green door. The little blue man identifying the room is missing one of his legs—Jack wonders if he would have ended up like that if he'd stayed in rodeo.
Might have been worth it, though.
Letting the might-have-beens fade into the background where they usually stay, he unzips and sighs with relief. Shoulda just pissed on the fucker when he asked if I was even old enough to drive one a these tractors. Not like he's God gift t'machinery or nothin'.
"Heya, boss. We ready t'git goin'?" Nero's voice rumbles behind Jack and he stops peeing out of surprise.
"Uh, yeah… I'm ready t'go. Soon as I'm done… here." He readjusts, trying find his comfort zone again, but Nero situates at the urinal directly to his right.
"Wanna get a beer or sumpin' 'fore we head back to the motel? I could use one, don't know 'bout you."
Jack swallows hard, zipping up. No use trying to finish up now. "Sure, why not." Why not? I can give you about a hunerd reasons why not, you stupid dumbfuck…Though I guess it'll gimme a chance to come up with some reason why we oughtn't share a room tonight.
As they walk out to the truck, Jack looks askance at Nero, unsure how the evening will go. So what do I say? Sure as hell'll seem strange t'ask for separate rooms, 'cause it'll cost more money and I always stay with the other guys when I'm on the road. Though none a them was quite so…
Jack doesn't even know how to describe it. Nero is strong-built, moving with lithe confidence, the strength of his presence impossible to ignore, exuded in every movement, yet somehow understated, contained, heat boiling below the surface. Burnished mahogany skin, backlit in the setting sun, draws Jack's eyes up his neck and along his jaw, the rough mat of dark stubble a contrast to his smooth-shaven head. Nero wears the mantle of his masculinity close-fitting, but with no discomfort. Shit, this guy could beat me flat in under a second. Those arms must be the size a my legs. And why is that so fuckin'… hot?
Not to mention that his mustache, thick and perfectly groomed, makes Jack's pale imitation cringe in embarrassment. He considers shaving it off back at the motel, a change of pace, maybe, but also a little "fuck you" to Ennis. He remembers when Ennis saw it for the first time—he raised his eyebrow, gave a quirked side-smile, and tackled Jack to the ground, growling something unintelligible but wholly sexual. Jack opens the car door, lump closing up his throat. Yup, definitely need some beers. Maybe some whiskey, even.
The bar they end up at is populated with washed-out locals and few other guys from the show. They grab their beers at the bar, which is full, so they sit at a table in the corner, round and so small that their knees almost knock. Jack downs his first mug so quickly that's he up again before he's even had a chance to get comfortable. He purchases a pitcher; it takes up most of the small table but he'll probably need the whole thing, if not two.
Years of polite chit-chat etiquette kicking in, he asks, "You from around here, Nero?" He's noticed the "ah" instead of "I" and the relaxed consonants, the slow cadence of his speech.
"Naw, I'm from Alabama, roundabouts Auburn. I sound nahmal there, but 'round here I stick out like a needle in a haystack."
"Not so bad, I was just curious. Ain't got no other Alabamans on the crew, don't think."
"Nope, just me. Don't hardly go back no more, though, gotta save up all mah money."
"Family back there?"
"Yeah, I'm tryin' a suppoht 'em. My ma cain't walk no more, so my sistah takes care a her mostly, and I send 'em all I can." He tries to smile a little, but the homesickness is a feeling Jack can recognize from a mile away.
"My folks is up in Wyomin', don't get to see 'em as much as I'd like, neither. Can be hard, all that distance. What kinda job was you at before this?"
"Oh, just jumped around…"
They chat amiably for the next couple hours, Jack unwinding in direct proportion to his alcohol consumption. He does his best not to notice Nero's five-hundred watt smile, lighting up his face with every dumb joke Jack makes, or the fact that their knees are definitely touching under the table. Nothing wrong with being friendly, he keeps telling himself. Lighting up his sixth cigarette of the evening, his lighter dies, flames sputtering down just after charring the tip.
"Y'gotta light, Nero? I swear t'God, nobody cain't make nothin' a quality anymore, piece a shit lighter…" Jack's words slur slightly and he throws the lighter in question down on the table.
"No problem, boss." Nero pulls a pack of matches out of his shirt pocket, pulling out a single match and leaning over, he strikes it against the side of his boot in one smooth motion, igniting on the first try. Straightening up, he holds the flickering flame out for Jack, right hand cupped to keep it from being extinguished. Jack takes a drag off the cigarette and promptly swallows more beer, cotton-mouthed. Damned if that isn't the sexiest thing he's seen in a long time.
It's going to be a long night.
"How 'bout ice cream, then?"
"Sorry, honey, we got a lot to do today. Don't have time for ice cream right now."
"But you promised!" She stamped her foot, unwilling to sacrifice such a treat as ice cream so easily.
"I'm sorry… I shouldn't a said that. Wasn't nice a me. But we really cain't get any ice cream today."
Her older sister rolled her eyes. "We can just get ice cream tomorrow." She was proud that she didn't need to whine about ice cream, even though she wanted it, too.
"Ain't fair, mamma. When I make promises you always make me keep 'em." Her lower lip protruded stubbornly.
"Alright! Alright. We'll try to get some ice cream today, but that's the best I can do."
She claps her hands in excitement. "Thanks, mamma! I can eat it in the car, don't worry. I'll be real careful. And we can bring Duke along to lick up the mess."
Her mother laughs. "Don't go pushin' your luck, little lady. Now go get dressed so we can get goin', alright?"
Bobby drops the book down on the bed, frustrated. Don't make any sense, how'm I s'posed to read it? He puts his pencil, peppered with bite marks, inside as a bookmark and rolls up to a sitting position. He looks around the room, evaluating what he can do quietly if Lureen comes home early she won't hear that he isn't doing his homework. He doesn't come up with much, and decides to head outside instead, see if what Paul told him about burning ants with a magnifying glass is true. He can tell mamma he's doing a science project if she asks.
He's on his way to Jack's office when he hears the sound. It's low, and he can't make out what it is, but it's coming from the direction of the guest room. That Ennis fella is still here? I thought he went to New Mexico with daddy. His eyes widen as he realizes what this means, and he looks around the hallway furtively, sure that someone will stop him as he stealthily approaches the guest room door. Daddy won't mind that much. I'm real friendly, I know my manners. I don't see what the big fuss is, anyway. He stops in front of the door, pressing his ear against the wood to see if he can figure out what Ennis is up to in there. Wonder if he's talkin' to someone else? But he don't hardly talk, and who would he be talkin' to anyway? Maybe he's just got the TV on real loud. Bobby decides to knock, quietly rapping at first, and then a little louder when he doesn't get an answer.
After a few minutes he gets a strange feeling in his stomach and scrunches up his face in confusion. Wouldn't he just say "go away" is he's real busy? Why ain't he answerin' the door? After another few minutes, ignoring everything his mother ever taught him about manners, he closes his eyes up tight and turns the doorknob.